Brianna POV
We found a small, secluded bench under a weeping willow, away from the cafe's crowd. The silence stretched between us, heavy with unspoken history. Ashton cleared his throat, his hands trembling as he clasped them together.
"Kiley and I… we broke up years ago," he began, his voice hoarse. "I've been looking for you, Brianna. For eighteen years. I haven't stopped." He swallowed hard. "I sold everything. The company, the house, all of it. I've traveled to thirteen different countries, searching… repenting. Every single day."
Tears streamed down his gaunt face. "Brianna, I am so, so sorry. For everything. For the way I treated you, for the things I said, for the lies I believed."
I listened, my expression unmoving. His words registered, but they held no power over me. The pain was gone, replaced by a quiet disinterest. "It's in the past, Ashton," I said softly. "It's all over."
His head snapped up. "No! It's not over!" He gripped the edge of the bench, his knuckles white. "It was etched into my soul, Brianna. It was the most profound love of my life!"
A dry, hollow laugh escaped me. "Love? Betrayal, humiliation, public torture? Your definition of love is unique."
I stood to leave. "If that's all, I really must go."
"Are you happy?" he asked, desperation in his voice.
I paused. "I am very well. Jonas and I, our children—we are very happy. It's a wonderful life."
He slumped back, defeated. "I haven't been well. Not since you left."
I sat back down, not because I owed him, but because I had nothing left to fear. He needed to speak. I could listen without being affected.
He told me how the night I left, he watched the helicopter disappear and felt his heart tear in two. Kiley had grabbed his arm, shrieking that I was a manipulative whore. He had screamed back at her—the first time he had ever raised his voice in her defense. In that moment, the fog lifted. He saw Kiley for what she truly was: a predator who fed on vulnerability.
He started digging into her past. High school records of a girl she'd driven to drop out; university reports of international students she'd terrorized. He confronted her. She crumbled. When he refused to marry her, she spread lies online. But he fought back, publishing the truth about her manipulations—her own scandalous upbringing, her mother a notorious social climber, Kiley herself born out of wedlock.
The internet turned on Kiley. The bullying was relentless. And Kiley, unable to withstand it, took her own life.
Ashton's voice cracked. "Her death brought me no satisfaction. Only horror. I realized you could have suffered the same fate, if Caryl hadn't intervened."
I let his words settle. Then I thought of the news alert that had appeared on my phone three years ago. I had been in my studio, sketching a garden layout. The notification popped up: "Socialite Kiley McConnell found dead in apparent suicide. Sources cite online harassment following exposé by ex-fiancé."
I had stared at the screen for a long time. Then I set the phone down and finished my sketch.
"Kiley's dead," I said now, not a question.
Ashton nodded, his eyes wet. "Three years ago."
"I know," I said. "I saw it in the news. The comments underneath—people celebrating. It was grotesque. The same mob that cheered when I was on the floor."
He flinched. "I never wanted—"
"I know what you wanted," I interrupted, my voice calm. "But she was still a person. A cruel one. But a person." I paused. "I didn't mourn her. But I didn't celebrate, either."
Ashton stared at me, as if seeing me for the first time. "You're different," he whispered.
"I survived," I said. "That changes you."
After that, Ashton sold Hampton Industries and poured everything into finding me. He crisscrossed the globe for eighteen years. He stopped caring for himself. The gastric ulcers I used to manage with homemade broths—he ignored them until the pain was constant.
"I flew to London seven times in the first year alone. Stood outside Caryl's property for days. Security always escorted me away. I wrote you dozens of letters—never a reply. Found an old social media account of yours and sent messages every day for three years. Nothing."
I said nothing. Caryl had burned the letters. I had deleted the account.
He continued: "The letters, the messages, the cross-continent searches—all of it, nothing. You simply vanished."
"Once," he whispered, his eyes fixed on the ground, "I found out where you lived. A few years ago. I stood across the street and watched you water your garden. You looked so peaceful. I couldn't bring myself to ruin it. I just stood there until you went inside."
My chest tightened. I remembered that afternoon—a man across the street, too far away to recognize. I had assumed it was a neighbor.
"So that was you," I said quietly.
He nodded, not looking up. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have come. But I needed to see you. Just once."
"I bought a small cafe in Notting Hill. The Gilded Bean. I knew you always loved quaint cafes. I hoped—perhaps—you might pass by. One last chance to say I'm sorry."
He looked at me with pleading eyes. "I know it doesn't change anything. But I needed you to know that I never loved her. Not truly. You were always my white rose, Brianna. I was just too blind to see it."
I let the words settle. They weighed nothing.
"Are you finished?" I asked.
He flinched. He followed my gaze to the cafe window where Jonas sat, patiently sipping coffee, occasionally glancing our way. A fresh wave of despair crossed Ashton's face.
"Brianna," he said, "do you still live in London?"
"No."
"Where, then?"
"That's not something I can tell you."
He sighed, a sound of utter defeat. "I understand. I just hope… one day, we might meet again."
I stood to leave.
"Brianna," he called out. "Do you remember when I called you my white rose?"
"I remember."
"You were always my white rose."
I gave a small nod and began to walk away.
"Brianna… please. Just once. Call me 'my love' again."
My heart did not stir. That endearment now belonged to Jonas.
"No," I said quietly. "That name belongs to my husband now. You lost it the night you watched them kick me."
He flinched as if I'd struck him.
"Can I call you my love, then?" he whispered.
"That's your choice, Ashton. It means nothing to me either way."
I kept walking. After a long moment, a raw cry tore through the quiet park. "My love!" Ashton screamed, his voice shattering the afternoon calm—a sound of pure agony, of a broken man finally unleashing years of remorse.
I paused, turning my head. He was on his feet, arms outstretched, tears streaming down his face.
I simply smiled—a small, gentle smile—and turned away. I did not stop. I walked out of the park, leaving him and his agony behind.
That evening, after the children were asleep, Jonas came back from a walk with a tight expression. "He was outside the hotel. I told him to leave. He didn't argue."
I nodded. "Thank you."
"He said he would leave London tomorrow."
I looked out the window at the dark street. "Good."
Jonas put his arm around me. We stood like that for a long time.
The next morning, there was no sign of Ashton. He had kept his word.
